I/ 'm/ 've ______ing/en/ed

I'm wondering
where my shaved off facial growth is now.  Probably in a bio-hazard bag or something.  Maybe even on its way to a bio-hazardous waste treatment facility.  Maybe it's already been incinerated.

I've eaten
a dolma, a piece of baklava, a dried fig, pickled carrots, a couple of Turkish dumplings, and a piece of Turkish delight.  International Coffee Hour hosted by the Turkish Student Association.  I must admit, though, I can't eat Turkish delight without thinking about the White Witch.

I've learned
"I Will Worship" on my guitar.  Such an awesome sounding set of chords.  I think I've improved since my guitar debut.  (Plus I have a new guitar.)

I've managed
to get my car's CD player working again.  Truth be told, I rebuked it in the name of Jesus out of desperation, totally not wanting to listen to 90s hits or static-filled NPR the whole way.  I must've cast out the non-functioning demon or something.  Whatever works.  I realized that I hadn't listened to my Steven Curtis Chapman Signs of Life CD (Yes, that's right.  I refuse to be ashamed.)  since I started learning the guitar.   Now I super want to get all the sheet music to that CD and learn every song.

I've resolved
not to rest until I get 500 points on Fruit Ninja.  My highest score is 472.  I'm so close.  I feel like if I can get 500 points on this game, then I can do anything.  I'm already going to have to do a million things over the break . . . paper proposal + annotated bibliography, finish reading this Afro-Ecuadorian novel and outline my share of a presentation, translate and edit down a paper I'm presenting . . . ugh.  But if I can meet or surpass my Fruit Ninja goal, I know I'll be able to knock the rest of these babies out.

TMI or A Piece of Me

I said I wasn't going to write about this, but I have to.

To make a long story short, I developed a little . . . I don't know what to call it, moleish looking thing on my cheek.  My skin has never been baby's butt quality and never will, so I kind of shrugged it off as just another one of those bad skin things. It was minimal at first, but then it became kind of raised and started bothering me.  I became concerned, and I wanted it to go away.

So, I went in and got it checked out and the Dr. was like, we can do this quick little procedure where we inject it with this stuff to numb it and then just shave it off.  I was repulsed yet intrigued.  He didn't think it was malignant, but would send it to the lab anyway just to be on the safe side.  He expected any scarring to be minimal (as if an additional little facial imperfection could jack up my swag) and said we could take care of it right then.  "It takes longer to talk about it than to actually do it."  I said let's do it.

I've always been one to be skittish about needles and blood, so I'll spare you the particulars of the procedure. But here's the disgusting yet magnetically attractive thing: That little moley skin growth they shaved off was deposited into a little liquid-filled jar to be taken to the lab.  As much as I wanted that yucky thing off of my face, and as easily as I'm grossed out by things, I still had to see it.  There it was.  A former piece of my face floating around in a little solution.  I almost felt sad.  Bye, little guy.

As unattractive and undesirable as it was . . . well, it was a piece of me.  Literally.  Ey, you wanna piece of me?  You don't really wanna piece of me, buddy.

Now, I'm sporting a circular band-aid on my cheek for a little while.  A little awkward for now, perhaps.  (As I'm typing this, I'm already trying to think of graceful ways to explain it to curious questioners.) But I cannot express how happy I am that this thing is off my face.  It's refreshing.  Like I can breathe again and not have to look in the mirror and grapple with the existence of an unwelcome moley addition to my visage.

I will admit, however, that there is a small, morbid, weird part of me, the same part of me that was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe in 7th grade, perhaps, that is still kind of taken with the image of that tiny piece of my flesh floating around in a glass jar.

You don't know.

That's what I keep telling myself.  You don't know.  When you know you don't know but still allow your mind to perform processes as if you do know (every day), it's time to stop, hit reset, and remind yourself that you don't know.  Awww, I'm never gonna.  Stop that.  You don't know.

I have a grand total of four W-2s to contend with this year when I file my taxes.  Four.  I was bouncing all over the place last year, good Lord.  I have two states to file for as well.  Moving around.  Bouncing around.  Like one of those little superballs.  And I'm still not here to stay.  I'll know I've settled down when I finally change my "permanent address" from my parents' house.  I remember getting a letter from the whatever ministry in France talking about declaring my income so that it will be calculated into my retirement.  I worked as an ESL instructor for like two months.  Um, I said au revoir to y'all a long time ago.

My guitar instructor was showing me the "numbers."  If I learn the numbers, I can transpose in my head. See, these pairs of chords sound alike.  They have the same pattern.  Then I noticed that progression sounded like that Nirvana song.  I laughed and told him.  Hey, you're right.  These are the bass notes to "Smells Like Teen Spirit."  You listened to Nirvana?  Um, no . . . but that song was SUPER popular when it came out.  I know he had a moment of cognitive dissonance.  Imagining the likes of me in the grunge scene.  Er, I was 9 years old.  Here we are now, entertain us . . .

Exulting in the fact that I knocked out a 10 page midterm.  I was going to say what it was about, but nah, it's done.  Sent off.  Every victory is short lived, though, because another lizard tail of work grows back in its place.  What else grows back?  Starfish arms.  Hydra heads.

I ate the last of my Girl Scout cookies today.  It was a sadly delicious moment.  Sad, but delicious.

Spring break coming up.  I laugh at the word "break."  I think I'm just going to call it Spring week.  It's a week to get more work done before the onslaught when the "break" is over.

After years of sugar addiction, I'm finally beginning to drink hot tea without sugar.  It started because I was too lazy to buy more sugar, so I had no choice.  But then I started liking it.  Whaddya know.

God. Dude.

I want to thank you for giving me good genes and helping me keep a relatively fresh face.  You know, I'm coming up on the big 3-0 here in a minute, and it's nice to know that I could pass for younger.  However, this presents a barrel of awkwardness when people who are a generation younger than I am feel prompted to use lines such as "it's just a decade," to try to minimize our off-the-chain age difference.  Really, buddy?  To be fair, you know, he does have the Holy Ghost and stuff like that.  So, Lord, you know I'm not trying to minimize that.  But I think I draw the line when the guy hasn't even declared a major yet and here I am up to my eyeballs in Homi Bhaba.  I mean he's cute and tall and all of that, but 6 years younger than my "little" brother?  Naw, dawg.  Naw.

Now, if the age difference were the other way around . . . (does this make me a hypocrite?)  I would be totally down.  A man in his late 30s/early 40s?  He about that Lord and has his stuff together?  Whuuut?  Sign me up.

I'm just saying.

There's a professor

that I absolutely admire.

She just exudes confidence and is totally comfortable with herself, and you can tell that she loves what she does.  She's super down-to-earth, totally unpretentious, but she's literally a genius.  She's won crazy fellowships and awards . . . but she's so real.  She has this long mass of tightly coiled spiral curls and a nose ring that somehow, on her, comes off as understated and appropriate and not "young professorial rebel."  She always dresses professionally, occasionally brings coffee to class, and expects the best from us.

She arranged for a Dominicanyork performer to come to campus.  It's just awesome.  We read the performer's work, (it's basically choreopoetry), got a chance to see her in action yesterday evening at a university sponsored event, and now today, she's coming to our class so we'll have a chance to interact with her on a more personal level and ask questions about her work.  I'm just kind of in awe of the fact that my professor cares enough to want her students to have face time with someone we're reading and writing papers on for class.  My professor also invited me and a few others to have lunch with the performer and a few other professors before class today.  I'm totally nerding out.

I had a moment last night when I was talking to my professor and she was giving me more details about meeting for lunch today.  I wasn't planning on it (most of my moments happen unexpectedly) but I started tearing up when I told her that I think she's awesome, I appreciate her inviting me, and appreciate her making the effort to bring the performer here, etc. Ugh!  I'm such a baby . . . it's so embarrassing.  She was all like, "Stop! Now you're going to make me cry," and gave me a hug.  What is wrong with me?

I know she thinks of me as "cute."  I sit up front like a dutiful little nerd, actively participate in class discussion but often get tongue-tied because I get nervous when trying to express myself in Spanish (in front of my majority native-speaker classmates).  And now I've outed myself as a softie.  Awww, how cute.  How sweet.

I want to be that confident, I've-got-it-together woman.  Sometimes I am that woman.  But sometimes I slip back into that awkward little girl.  I guess I have to accept the fact that the little girl is always going to be there somewhere, no matter how old I get.

Soundtrack to My Last Post

Hit play and reread yesterday's post.

Yes, the original version, not the Rascal Flatts remake.

Road Trip

I was thinking as I was driving home from visiting a buddy this weekend, that one of the times I feel absolutely intrepid, like my whole life is ahead of me, like the world is mine to explore, is when I'm on a solo road trip.

There's something about getting out on the road, embarking on a journey, having a clear destination, that makes me feel empowered.  I can go anywhere, do anything.  I am fearless, undaunted, liberated.  I am the mistress of my destiny.

I'm thinking about other trips I have coming up soon, anticipating that feeling.  The knowledge that I'm connected to other spheres.  On the move.  A newness to places I've already seen.  Somehow remembering places I've never been.  Meeting new people who seem familiar.  Observing with bittersweet clarity that people change almost as much as they remain the same.

You can never sit still for long, can you?  It's not that, exactly.  It's just that I have the freedom now.  I may not always.  So, until something (or someone) settles me down, I'll keep trekking.

Four Pages

Yes.  Again.  You know how it be.  The same song and dance.

OmgIhaveapaperduewhatamIgoingtodoI'maprocrastinatorI'msotired.  Whine, whine, whine, whine, whine.

O wretched woman that I am!  Who shall deliver me from the body of this paper writing?

Let words flow through me.  Let smart ideas come to me.  Let big, academic, Spanish words enter my brain space and fill up screen space.

Four pages?  Gettheheckouttahere.  Back in my day, we had to write 50 pages!  On typewriters!  With no correction fluid!  Barefoot in the snow!

Four pages?  Guh, you crazy.  Shoo.  Sittin up in yo chair, hair lookin all crazy, talkin bout some "corporality and agency."  What chu talkin bout, guh?  Don't nobody care bout dat junk.  Ackin like a four page paper be somethin.  Guh, sit back.

Four pages?  Blimey.  You poor, poor dear.  Come in, have a spot of tea.  Meet the missus.  Can't have you standing out in the beastly paper writing cold, love.

Dear Lord, in all of your paper writing splendor and majesty, fill my fingertips with the Holy Ghost so they can ecstatically type under the anointing in another tongue.  (Spanish.)

Amen.

The Big Sea

Ugh.  I'm about fed up with this interminable Afro-Cuban novel.  It's not that I dislike it, it's just going on and on and I'm ready to wrap it up.  I have to write a paper about this joker for Thursday.  Tomorrow's going to be a long day.  (Sigh.)

Anyway, my night stand reading is Langston Hughes's autobiography (the first one) called The Big Sea.  It's lovely.  I would have been in love with him.  Completely in love with him.  He even tells a story about one of his students falling in love with him.  He was only 18, living with his father in Mexico, and he began teaching English classes for a bit of extra cash.  I love this passage:

Six months anywhere is enough to begin to complicate life.  By that time, if you stay in one place, you are bound to know people too well for things to be any longer simple.  Well, that winter one of my pupils fell in love with me.  She was a woman in her thirties, to whom I had been giving lessons two afternoons a week.  She lived a secluded life with her old aunt, no doubt on a small income.  And she had never been married because, since childhood, she has suffered with a heart ailment.  She was a very delicate little woman, ivory-tan in color, with a great mass of heavy black hair and very bright but sad eyes.  I always thought perhaps she was something like Emily Dickinson, shut away and strange, eager and lonesome, as Emily must have been. 

But I had no way of knowing she was going to fall in love with me.  She read and spoke a little English, but she wanted to be able to read big novels like Scott's and Dickens's.  Yet she didn't pay much attention to her lessons.  When I read aloud, she would look at me, until I looked at her.  Then her eyes would fall.  After several weeks of classes, shyly, in a funny little sentence of awkward English, she finally made me realize she must be in love. 

She began to say things like: "Dear Mister, I cannot wait you to come back so long off Friday." 

"But you have to learn your verbs," I'd say.  "And it will take until Friday." 

"The verbs is not much difficult.  It's you I am think about, Mister." 

She seemed almost elderly to me then, at eighteen.  I was confused and didn't know what to say.  After a few such sentences in English, she'd blush deeply and take refuge in Spanish.  And all I could think of to tell her was that she mustn't fall in love with me, because I was going to New York as soon as I had saved the fare.

I also love the way he describes how he was inspired to write one of his most famous poems, "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."  I won't type it all out here, but suffice it to say that it filled me with an overwhelming warmth and brought tears to my eyes.  I love the idea of beginnings.  How it all came about.  He was on a train, right outside St. Louis, on his way to Texas.  He says: "The thought came to me: 'I've known rivers,' and I put it down on the back of an envelope I had in my pocket."  He wrote it in about 10 or 15 minutes.  He was only a teenager.

Okay.  Maybe a chapter or two more of The Big Sea and then to bed because I've got to get up early to get right back to the interminable novel.  This too shall pass.

Outrageous Fortune

Why I woke up this morning with Hamlet's to be or not to be soliloquy rolling through my mind, who knows?  I had to memorize it for Literature in 12th grade.  Yeah, that was the same teacher who made us memorize the general prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Old English.  Surprisingly, out of the two, the Old English passage is the one I still know by heart.  Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote . . .

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune . . . " Outrageous fortune.  That's what I zeroed in on.  It just seemed like a fitting title to a blog post.

Fortune.  Chance.  Ups and downs.  The rain: The just and the unjust.  Everyone thinks "it rains on the just and the unjust" means that bad things happen to good and bad people alike.  But I was enlightened a few years ago.  We only think it means that because we usually consider rain something negative.  Rainy, gloomy, messy, wet and gray.  In the Bible days, however, rain was a blessing.  It meant crops would be watered.  It meant a bountiful harvest.  It actually means that good things happen to good and bad people alike.  I say this on a gray, rainy day, in a modern culture where rain is now associated with gloom.  And I can't help it.  The rhythmic drops making me want to stay wrapped up in my comforter cocoon.

Chance.  Ups and downs.  Sunday morning blues.  That static-filled AM gospel station on the drive there like the smell of collard greens.  Not pleasant, but you know it's good.  I'm a crier.  My eyes rain on the just and the unjust.  Asking God to help me push past myself as a rousing chorus of guitar-backed contemporary worship floods my ears. God, help me get over me.  Raindrops. When I finally found that belt I was looking for and clasped it around my waist, it hit me.  It's not that I don't want to have to take care of myself.  I just don't want to have to take care of myself alone.   Still trying to push past myself when, like a twist of fate, a long-haired, soft-handed sister zooms in beside me.  Even though she doesn't know, she knows.  With that comforting prayer hand on the back and those whispered, scripture-inflected words of encouragement. He knows. Was it because it was Family Day and the family I do have isn't with me and the family I want to have is not even on the horizon?  He knows.  From my heart to the heavens / Jesus be the center / It's all about You / Yes, it's all about You.

Ups and downs.  Hugs and clasped hands and smiles.  That off sister.  You know that off sister.  She's awkward, overeager, well-meaning.  Her face says, "Would you?" with that constant smile and she waits to see how you will respond.  As nicely as I could, I don't think I'll be able to, er, participate with your Mary Kay sales.

Now that I'm back at my apartment and the blues have subsided: Warm up that chicken broccoli alfredo I made (It's good).  Read that Maureen Dowd column.  Strum on that guitar.  Make that cup of orange spice tea.  Take that nap.  Or read that novel.  It's up to me.

Me to Me

Me: Ugh, you get on my nerves!  Look at you.  Super lazy with a mountain of work to do.  Sitting around inhaling Girl Scout cookies.  You've barely read that novel.  What do you think this is?

Me: Chill out and get off my back.  What have I gotten on all of my graded work so far?  A's.  Yup.  What news did I just get?  That my abstract submission was accepted.  Yup.  So, it's not like I haven't done anything.  You get on my nerves, too.  Old anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive . . .

Me: Oh, so it's like that, huh?  You got a few little A's on response papers.  Whoop-dee-doo.  Do you realize that you have to have a paper proposal along with an annotated bibliography due in a couple of weeks?  Have you lifted a finger to even get started on that?  You think you're gonna be able to whip that up in a couple of days?  No, honey.  And you think you're hot stuff because you're presenting at the grad student panel and at Stony Brook?  You still have to actually get the paper in a presentable form.  As it stands, it's still 18 pages long and in Spanish.  Um, can't present that in English in 20 minutes, now can you?

Me: Leave me alone!  I deserve a break sometime, don't I?  You just wanna work, work, work, work.  That's why you stay cooped up in your apartment all weekend.  When do you ever do anything fun?

Me: Okay, you're saying that now.  But let me tell you something, when you're all tired and cranky and bent out of shape and frazzled because you procrastinated like a lazy procrastinating lazy bum, and then start freaking out when you realize you don't have a lot of time to get a lot of work done, I don't even want to hear it.  No, ma'am.  You bring that crap upon yourself and then have the nerve to complain about it.

Me: Really?  Who doesn't complain about the work they have to do?  I'm a human being.

Me: I have absolutely no sympathy for you.  Do you think anyone really cares about all the work you have to do?  You're in a PhD program.  Duh.  It's supposed to be a lot of work.  This is what you signed up for.  And you're not doing yourself any favors by putting things off and "giving yourself a break."  I'm telling you, I've really had it with you.  Entitled, lazy, procrastinating, Internet-addicted, junk food junkie.  And your hair, good Lord.  You need to do something with that.

Me: Shut up.  My hair is fine.  And what does that have to do with anything anyway?  Everyone said they liked my hair the other day.

Me: See, that's another one of your problems.  Always caring about what everybody else thinks.  Always comparing yourself to other people . . . it's so sickening.

Me: Why are you always so mean to me?  Sit back and stop berating me.  I know I'm not perfect.  I never will be and you need to deal with it.  I'm going to get done what I need to get done when I need to get it done.

Me: (Throws hands up.) All right.  (Nods head knowingly.)  Okay.  Go ahead.  Like I said, I don't even wanna hear it when things get down to the wire.

Me: (Rolls eyes.) Whatever.

A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Reality

This post is the companion piece to yesterday's post, "A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Fantasy."

First let me give a little preamble.  (Go ahead and sigh.)

I love Valentine's Day.  Even though being a singleton has been my lot for a while, I still love it.  Maybe because Valentine's Day is mushy and corny, and I get into mushy, corny stuff.  Maybe because I believe that if you want love, you should show love, and Valentine's Day is a perfect day to show love.  It's also a perfect excuse to wear a cute red dress and go on a sugar binge.

As you may have guessed, I did not get a surprise gift from The One.  In fact, if that had actually happened, I don't know if I would've actually shown up at East West Bistro at 6:00 p.m., because the more I thought about it, the more The One seemed like a creeper.  He knew all of this detailed stuff about me, and we hadn't even met before?  Creeper.  He'd even talked to my overprotective dad without mentioning anything to me?  Um, a little presumptuous.  And even if you do already know what I want to order because you're a mind reader or you just know me that well, it's still actually kind of chauvinistic to order for me.  So, The One, maybe you need to sit back for a minute.

So.  Let's distinguish the rest of my fantasy from reality.   The sun was SO not shining today.  It was super dreary.  But I did rock the frilly red dress and the wavy hair.  Wassuppp!

I wanted to share some Valentine's Day joy.  What better way to do that than cupcakes?  I brought these to class this afternoon.  Cupcakes conquer all.

My classmates didn't eat them all, so I was a little Valentine's Day elf, giving them out to classmates and professors on my way back downstairs, and sat the rest right in the main lobby of the department for any to partake of.  Those bad boys were gone so fast . . . I also got a little surprise in my box from the Valentine's Day Fairy.

So, dear reader, let me tell you how this realistic Valentine's Day is going to end.  It's Tuesday.  Which means I can get a large pepperoni pizza from Papa John's for $4.99.  And just because I didn't get flowers from The One, does that mean I can't have them?  Whatever.  On my way back from picking up my pizza, I'm going to buy some sunflowers.  I know there will be some there for me.  Special things like that are always saved for me.  And though I do have a lot of work to get done (presentation tomorrow, et. al.), I shall have a bubble bath tonight.  Yes, darling, I shall.

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Fantasy

The sun is shining through my blinds and the light softly falls across my face, and I wake up to the birds singing the sweet songs of morning.  I already know what I'm going to wear.  Red.  Frilly, blushing, Valentine's Day red.  The red dress I choose is stunning, made for a Valentine's Day like this. When I unpin my pin curls, they come down perfectly and my hair is a mane of soft, wavy glory.  Right as I open the door to my apartment to walk to the bus, I find a bouquet of beautiful, bright sunflowers with lavender, heart-shaped balloons attached to the vase at my doorstep.  Right beside it is a cute little stuffed monkey holding an envelope.  When I open up the envelope, I find a Starbucks gift card that will allow me to get a free white chocolate mocha every day for a whole year, as well as a Papa John's gift card that will allow me to get a free pepperoni pizza every day for a year.  There is also a note.  It says:

My dearest Chantell,

It is not enough to say I love you.  Instead, I must tell you what I love of you.  I love the light in your almond-shaped eyes, the cleft in your chin, and the sun in your toothy smile.  I love the joy in your ebullient, sudden, infectious laugh and the way you girlishly cover your mouth because you're afraid it's too loud.  I love your slender fingers and the way you absentmindedly crack your knuckles.  Though it may annoy some, the sound of those pops is music to my ears.  I love the way you walk slightly hunched over from years of carrying a heavy backpack in high school.  Yes, you were and are a nerd, my dear.  And I love your nerdiness.  I love the GRE words you use and your obsession with Maureen Dowd columns because of the vocabulary she uses.  Everything about you, your voice, the way you roll your eyes, the way you respond to things with "whatever" even though you're almost 30 years old and not a teenage valley girl, even your exaggerated disappointment when the automatic stapler doesn't staple your printed articles exactly the way you want it to, all of these things have endeared you to me.  

I know you may be wondering who I am, my dear.  Though it may be hard to believe, I am he.  I am the one you've always wished existed, but whose existence you feared wishing for was unrealistic.  No, my dear, I am a living, breathing man who exists. I am tall, I am erudite, I am bespectacled, I am curly-haired, long-lashed, and rather dashing.  I am also a bit older than you, and I know you like that because I am settled down and established and know exactly what I want.  I have a Colgate smile.  I quote Shakespeare, Langston Hughes and Malcolm Gladwell.  I speak all of the Romance languages, including Romanian.  But most of all, I am Apostolic, I speak in tongues at least once a day, and I wear pants.  And, if you haven't already gotten the point, I love you.

Meet me at East West Bistro downtown at 6:00 p.m. where I have reserved a candlelit table for two.  You'll know me when you see me.  I will be waiting.

Sincerely,

The One

P.S. - I also love your blog.  Now you'll have to change the title from "Where You Can Find Me" to "I Have Been Found."  I found you, my dear.  I have been searching for you all my life, and I have, at long last, found you.

I detect a faint whiff of a delicious, manly fragrance as I study the note once more, then hold it to my nose and inhale.  Ah.  Eternity for Men.

The entire day goes by wonderfully.  I get compliments on my wavy hair and my stunning dress.  The cute Peruvian guy in my program gives me a box of dark chocolate and asks if I have plans for the evening.

"Sorry," I say, "Yes, I do."  He looks after me longingly as I pick up my graded essay on my way out of class.  A plus.

Finally, 6:00 p.m. arrives.  I walk into East West Bistro, and I see him.  The One.  As the note said, I know him as soon as I lay eyes upon him.  When the waiter comes, he orders for me, because he already knows what I want.

"Listen," he begins.  His voice is velvet.  Like dark roast coffee flavored with Italian creme creamer.  "I know what you're thinking, and I want to calm your worries.  First of all, I know you're in the middle of a PhD program.  Don't worry.  I won't be a distraction.  Second of all, your father.  I've already taken care of it.  Check your phone."

I pull out my phone and see a text from Dad.  It says: "Say yes."

He continues, "Just from reading my note and observing me thus far, your gut is telling you that I'm a dedicated man who will take care of you and who will love you for you and will let you be you and wants to have lots of fat brown babies and who will go to church every time the doors are open, isn't it?"

I nod.

"I realize that it will take time for you to get to know me.  I want you to feel comfortable and I don't want to push you into anything.  I am not so presumptuous as to think that a mere Valentine's Day present and a dinner would win you over.  You deserve the very best because you are valuable, you are beautiful, and you are worth it.  I will wait for you.  I will fight for you.  I will support you.  I will be here for you.  And I love you.  Always."

Tears well up in my eyes.  I'm speechless.  "I-I don't even know what to say."

He reaches out for my hand.  "You don't have to say anything.  Let's just enjoy one another's company."

THE END

Stay tuned for tomorrow's companion piece, "A Single Girl's Valentine's Day Reality."

You're beautiful.

Someone told me this tonight in the most sincere and heartfelt way.  It was really unexpected. God knows we need to hear it.  I'm thankful for small, quiet blessings that leave my heart lighter.

New Guitar

Middle bro has been extremely generous of late, and gave me what I'll call an early birthday present for me to buy a new guitar.  The one I've been playing doesn't belong to me, is old and warped and even though it's playable, it's basically past the state of repair.  The action can't be lowered and getting it restrung might cause it to buckle (for you guitar enthusiasts who wanted to know the details).  So, since I'm serious about the guitar, my only recourse was to get a new one.

I asked my guitar instructor for a recommendation, went out this morning, let the store guy know my budget, strummed on a few, and made a decision.  I decided to get one with a slimmer neck because it's easier to grasp, and even though I could have gotten one with a smaller body which would have made it easier to hold, I decided on sticking with a larger body because it produces a fuller sound.  It came with a gig bag (cooler than a case) and I even got a free t-shirt. (And you know I'm all about free t-shirts.)

So, I should be happy, right?  I should have been delighting in my brand new, much easier to play guitar, gleefully rocking out on Mumford & Sons tunes (I can play Mumford's part in this song . . . not as well as he does, of course, but I can do it), improving my attempt at an original song, marveling at the ease with which I can switch chords now on "Mighty to Save" and "From the Inside Out," right?

But instead, I felt this massive wave of buyer's remorse.  Even though everything about the new guitar was "better" than the old one, it somehow wasn't as good as I thought it was going to be.  I didn't feel as great about it as I thought I should have felt.  It was the weirdest thing.  It's so dumb, but it (as do many things, I'm afraid) brought me to tears.  What the heck was the matter with me?  I had just bought an awesome, really nice guitar. It was what I wanted.  Wasn't it?

I sat there and realized a few things: First of all, I'm spoiled.  So, I needed to sit back for a minute and handle my spoiled girl problems. Second of all, I realized that despite it being hard to play and being messed up, the old guitar was what I was used to.  I guess I had gotten attached to it, in all its worn-out glory.  It's going to take me a little while to break the new guitar in and get used to it. Thirdly, this mini-moment allowed me to craft yet more life lesson analogies.

Analogy 1: Sometimes we get so used to a messed up way of thinking/living that when presented with the chance for a brand new, better way, we have a crisis.  Even though you know that you need a better way, that the old way can't sustain you, that something has to change, the messed up way is so ingrained that it clouds your enjoyment of and freedom in the better way.  So ingrained, in fact, that for some, the only resolution to the crisis is to go back to the old way.  Because some people would rather stick with the comfort of what they know even though it sucks than branch out into something awesome because it takes some getting used to and takes making some changes.

Analogy 2: Don't expect finally receiving what you've hoped for to fulfill your every need.  (This kind of scared me, actually.) One of these days, I will eventually get married.  I don't know when, but I believe that I will.  One day someone will get smart enough to snatch me up.  But when that day comes, I can't expect it to complete me.  I can't put so much stock into finally finding The One (SN: I don't really believe there is only one person out there in the universe who can fit the bill) that it's anticlimactic when I realize I'm the same human person with the same human needs that I was before The One swept into my life.  I know I'll be happy.  I know I'll be grateful.  Because, let's be honest, it's going to take a particular kind of person to love me for me. But I have to keep reminding myself that it won't be a cure-all.

Thank you, Lord, for turning my emotional moment into a learning moment.  And now I can go play my new guitar with a new perspective.

Overprotective dads

want their sons to get married like mad, but don't mind a bit if their daughters stay single till kingdom come.

I'm Weird.

I'm taking this class on New World literature.  Like Columbus talking about finding the "Indies," Hernan Cortes talking about how he defeated the Aztec, the Indians thinking the Spaniards were white, two-headed beasts (men on horseback), the Spaniards freaking out about human sacrifice, all of that.

When I was little, we had this condensed, illustrated encyclopedia, and if my mom made me look something up (as she was wont to do), I dreaded accidentally flipping to the "Aztec" entry.  It had a drawing taken from some codex or painting of a man with a little indention in his chest and a priest holding up a heart.  What really freaked me out was a picture right next to that of a bejeweled skull.

Now, I'm on the Indians' side.  Folks got their whole world turned upside down.  Reading all this stuff, I sympathize with the Aztec so much that I'm starting to think of human sacrifice as something awesome instead of something brutal. Not awesome, as in, this is cool, but awesome in the original sense, like, awe-inspiring.

The men who were sacrificed considered it an honor to be sacrificed.  Their bodies were being offered to the gods.  The Spanish criticized them because it seemed a disregard for human life (funny coming from them).  But in fact, they placed a very high value on human life.  So high, that human life was the only thing acceptable to sacrifice to the gods because they were offering their most valuable, their best.

Still glad my God doesn't require human blood for the world to continue, though.  Well . . . I guess He did, in a way.  He offered up Himself.

Snippets

"Cuz you don't have that . . . slang talk, you know?  But I betcha you could do both, right?" Umm, what the heck are you trying to say?


"Your email means a lot to me." You're welcome.  Your class is awesome, and the little complainers need to chill out.


"Have a blessed and safe day." Thank you, bus driver lady.  We need to hear a lot more of that these days.


"No, darlin', we only have size 5 and 7 1/2."  Blast my long foot!


"I meant to tell you that I was impressed that you used a walking bass line in your song."  Thanks . . . I didn't even know that's what that was.

Pocahontas

My middle bro came to visit this weekend, and we had a great time.  Growing up, I was the quintessential bossy big sister.  I would always tell my brothers what to do, since I was always right and in charge, and I would always snitch on them.  Yeah, I was that big sister.  It's cool that we're adults now and can enjoy each others' company as friends.

Since we're adults and friends, we talk about things that adults and friends talk about . . . like relationships.

Middle bro is a good guy.  He's a nice-looking guy and has a lot going for him, so it would be easy for someone like him to be a player.  But he isn't.  He's a solid guy trying to stay on the straight and narrow who truly wants a godly woman.  And perhaps there's a situation on the horizon.  While I'm grateful he feels cool enough with me to confide in me, in a way, he has confirmed some male patterns I've noticed.

Here's the first thing he confirmed: "But what if Pocahontas comes along?"

This is what I don't get.  Why would you be willing to let go of something good, godly, beautiful, tangible and real in order to hold out for something imaginary?  I won't say non-existent.  Who knows?  Maybe Pocahontas is sauntering around out there, in her brown, Indian princess glory and long, flowing hair.  But for all intents and purposes, she only exists in your mind.  In addition, you don't even know what it is, concretely, about Pocahontas that you feel would do it for you.  I mean, Pocahontas is stunning, but even you admit that the real life woman is also beautiful and that you're attracted to her.  But aside from looks, you have a real life connection with the real life woman on a deeper level.  Besides, even if Pocahontas were to show up one day, who's to say she would even want to have anything to do with you?

I actually said that last line, and he laughed.  Because he knew I was right.  Just like when we were younger.

Here's the second, oh-so-male thing he confirmed:  "I don't know . . . I mean, I guess if somebody else tried to talk to her, I'd get jealous, but . . . I don't know."

Really, guys?  I say if you know you'd get jealous if someone else tried to talk to her, then you do know.  I guess for some, the prospect of "somebody else" is what it has to take.

I love middle bro, though.  I know the kid is trying to figure it out.  The prospect of making a decision, not wanting to make the wrong one, not wanting to possibly hurt someone or get hurt yourself is scary.  I get it.  But if you're going to indefinitely postpone dealing with it and going for it and taking that chance, justifying it to yourself by using "Pocahontas" as an excuse, it's time to grow up.

Rolling On, Moving On

You're singing with a broken string
Tell me what you really mean
Do you know what you want?
While beating up on yesterday
I was on my rollerblades
Rolling on, moving on

Dear Gov. Jan Brewer

Dear Gov. Jan Brewer,

First of all, who told you it was okay to point your finger in the President of the United States' face?  Really? You are officially, certifiably off the chain.

Look, I don't care what you agreed with or disagreed with on what he had to say about how you portrayed him in your book.  Are you serious?  What's the matter with you?

Pointing your finger in someone's face is the height of disrespect.  I wish you had a grandma who would tell you to go get a switch off the tree in the backyard so she could tear your tail up for what you did.  The kind of grandma who, once you started carrying on, would say, "You better stop that crying 'fore I give you something to cry about."  Aw, shucks.  You don't know nothin bout that.  Else you would have thought twice about sticking your finger in the president's face.

That was mad rude.  Mad unnecessary and uncalled for.  Mad audacious.  Agree with him or not, Barack Obama is the President of the United States of America.  Do you know what that means?  It means he holds the most powerful, influential office in the world.  Whether or not you agree with the man, at least have the decency to respect his office.

I am so glad he walked away from you mid-sentence. Old disrespectful, publicity craving . . . and CNN's John King caught you dead in your contradictory ridiculousness.  You need to sit down, Gov. Jan Brewer.  Sit ALLAWAY down.

Sincerely,

Me

Insignificant, Nerdy Things

Every single time I've been nervous, worried, hesitant, or unmotivated about anything I've needed to do lately, but just kept plugging through, God has allowed me to sail through it.  Every time.

These are little things that don't really matter/make sense to anyone else, but I feel compelled to enumerate them.

1. Last semester, I wrote a paper to present at a conference aside from all of my other work.  I was so nervous about it, afraid that I wasn't going to be able to finish it in time.  Not only did I finish it, when I presented it, I got a lot of positive feedback and compliments about my work and presentation.

2. Last semester, there was a first draft of a paper I had to write.  There was no way I was going to have the draft done (in part, due to the work I put in to the above mentioned conference paper), but I wrote what I could and summarized the rest of my main points, praying that it wouldn't decimate my grade.  I made a 100 on it.

3. Yesterday, I didn't even get close to finishing the Cortes letters, much less the critical article.  I HATE being unprepared for class.  It just makes me feel like a horrible person and makes me not even want to go.  I know it's an insignificant, nerdy thing to most people, but I really despise the times that I'm in that position.  But I went anyway, sat up front as normal, and it was fine.  I was still able to participate as usual and everything.  Not once did I feel put on the spot.  

4. Yesterday, I also had to complete some additional training for my side job and part of the training was to give an introductory sales pitch of sorts.  I am totally not a sales person and even though I'm a teacher, public speaking still makes me nervous.  I didn't practice as much as I'd wanted to, and I was really nervous about my training session.  But I did what I could and it went over just fine. I even got a compliment about a little personal analogy I included.

I need to chill out.  I need to relax.  Just do what I can, continue to do what I'm doing, and let God handle the rest.

Something I still struggle with is the idea that I'm going to be left out there.  That one day, God (well, God wouldn't do this so, not Him, I guess) or people, or some intangible force is going to wash its hands of me and be like, "Okay, I'm done.  Now you're on your own.  Go ahead.  You figure it out."  I have to recognize this idea for the lie that it is, and keep going.  I have to continue to shut out images of the finality of a cold, dreary world and know that I'm going to be fine.  This thing is a process, and I have to get comfortable with the fact that it always will be.

I Don't Want/I Want

I Don't Want
to read 100 pages of letters Hernan Cortes wrote.  Thanks a lot, you pompous conquistador. Not only did you decimate the Aztec, centuries later, you're making poor Hispanic Studies students like me have to read your overblown, Eurocentric, gold-obsessed ramblings.  Did you have to write that much?  

I Want
Newt Gingrich to win the Republican nomination.  Not because I think he'll be disastrous to the Republican party and Obama will be a shoo-in.  Naw.  No matter who the Republican nominee is, Obama is going to have to campaign as well as or better than he did the first time around.  He doesn't have the same enthusiasm propelling him forward like he did in 2008, and swing voters are always finicky.  I want Newt Gingrich to win because I want Obama to shut him down.  I would enjoy seeing Obama just poke a tiny hole in him and watch him utterly deflate.  I want Obama to slice and dice him with such skill and precision that he doesn't even feel it and doesn't realize he's been cut completely up until he tries to take a step forward and just falls to pieces.  It's because I have zero sympathy for him, in part because he is resorting to the worst tactics ever to whip up a frenzy of support.  And so far (in South Carolina, at least) it's working.

Like, last time, even though John McCain was an old, unexciting, erratic curmudgeon and went from being a buck-the-system maverick to a dyed-in-the-wool establishment proponent, I still had a smidgen of sympathy for him.  Poor old guy, you know?  His party did him dirty back in 2000.  Old boy was just trying to make his mark.

Even Romney, robotic, awkward, political chameleon, I have sympathy for.  At least he's a faithful family man.  I wouldn't enjoy seeing him get owned by Obama.  It would be embarrassing and awkward and just uncomfortable.  I'm not the type that gets enjoyment out of uncomfortable, embarrassing things.  Like, when Rick Perry had his "oops" moment, it was unbelievable, but not funny.  Like, I couldn't laugh because it was so sad.  That's how I would feel during an Obama/Romney debate, for example.

But Gingrich.  He's got such an amazing amount of audacity, it's mind-boggling.  I would love to see him go head to head with Obama and see how fast the bluster gets knocked out of him.  I would say that he needs to go saddown somewhere, but he's going to need someone to sit him down.  Yup.

Now That I Know

I don't feel any different.  I don't.  I don't really look that different.  Seriously, sometimes people think I'm 10 years younger than I am when they first meet me and I tell them I'm going to school here. "So, are you a freshman?" Um . . . They don't realize it until I tell them what I'm doing/what I've done and then feel compelled to ask (despite its social impoliteness of being asked of a woman) "How old are you?"

It's taken me this long to know it for myself.  It's not that I've never known it or conceived of it.  It's not that I never had glimpses of it. It's just that my grasp on it was always tenuous.  I'd let it slip away so easily.  Now, my hold on it is firmer than it's ever been.  I believe it now.  That's what's different.

Sometimes I'm embarrassed about how long it's taken.  Like, if I had just known it for myself then . . . but then I realize it's foolish to think that way.  I know that if I hadn't not known it then, I wouldn't have a distinguishable, mature, firm grasp on it now.  As much as it hurt then, in a way, I had to go through it.  I had to go through it for my firm grasp, for my gratefulness, my realization of God's sovereignty.

What's changed is that I finally realize my worth.  That's what I finally have a grasp on.  My worth.  I finally possess this knowledge, and it's bittersweet.  It took a long time, I lost a lot, and I subjected myself to a lot because I hadn't always believed it.  I hadn't always believed that I was valuable.  That I was worth it.  But now that I know . . . I have to keep believing it.  I have to never allow it to slip from my grasp again.

Here's what allows me to move forward: I can't expect anyone else to know my worth until I know it for myself.  I can't expect anyone else to value me unless I know that I'm valuable.  And now that I know . . .

This is what He wanted me to see.  It's what I had to see.  This is a puzzle piece that looked fuzzy, and now is clear.  It fits.  Now that I know, the next piece has a place to fit.

Palimpsest

Sitting here trying to get some reading done.  Aargh!  I'm so easily distracted.

When I read and come across words I don't know, I feel that it's a justifiable distraction because even though I get off track with reading when I stop to look the word up, I'm still learning something new.  It's a win-win.

I'm really digging the word 'palimpsest' right now.  It basically refers to a reused parchment back in the day, but it's also used in the context of something having diverse layers or aspects.

I mean, I fancy myself a writer of sorts, and my identity is definitely comprised of diverse layers.

People are uncomfortable with what they can't easily define.  We want things to be familiar, recognizable.  We want to pinpoint it, categorize it, box it up and put a label on it so that we can be sure.  But what about when we can't?  Ooh, you want to put your finger on it so badly, but you can't.  That Oh, okay moment never arrives.  Some things elude boxes and labels and fingertips.  And we have to be able to live with it.  I'm finally feeling okay about living with it for myself.

Where are you from?
Oh . . . well, where are your parents from?
But you don't have an accent . . .
Then, why are you so light-skinned?
Oh, Spanish?  So are you, like, is your family . . . ?
Are you sure there's no one in your family who's like . . . ?
French?  But I thought you were studying Spanish . . .
Do you always wear skirts?
The guitar?  But I thought you played the piano . . .
You listen to that kind of music?
What church do you go to?
What's 'Apostolic'?
You went to Alabama, then Auburn and now Georgia?
So, what do plan to do with a PhD?
Don't you want to get married and stuff?
Are you seeing anyone?
So, what do you do for fun?
How do you get your hair to do that?
You eat that?
Oh, so you must be one of those __________. (Nope.)
Oh, so you must want to be  ____________. (Nope.)

I'm not either/or.  I'm and/yet.  Palimpsest. Look it up, categorophiles.  Palimpsest.  If you really want to know, then you must know that labels don't do it justice.  If you really want to know, then you must know that uncovering layers takes time.

MLK Day

I'm pretty sure I have posts in other years on other MLK Days with the exact same title.  Because I'm just bursting with originality.

I don't want to talk about the dream and whether it's been realized or whether it's still in process.  This is what I know: That when I hear Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s voice ring out, I get chillbumps.  His voice is the epitome of raw, palpable conviction.  His voice is that gut feeling when you just know.

Last night at church, something was said that stuck with me.  That I know I need to know:

How can you expect God to fill you up when you're not willing to empty yourself?  How can you expect God to give you what you desire when you're not willing to give up what you're holding on to?

I want to let go of those things that are riddled with me so that I can be prepared to receive God's best.

When I Was Sixteen vs. Now

When I was sixteen, I would take a dumb handsome guy over a smart ugly one, hands down.  Now, I couldn't tolerate a dumb handsome one for too long and am much more open to smart uglies.

When I was sixteen, I thought turning thirty was waaay, far off.  That by that time I'd be all established, maybe slightly hunched over from age.  Definitely married with kids.  Now . . . I laugh at my sixteen-year-old self SO hard.

When I was sixteen, I had very low self esteem and was extremely insecure.  I internalized everything.  I dramatized everything.  I wanted to fit in so badly.  Now, I am so much more confident in who I am, and know that I don't have to fit in.  In fact, now I wonder if I even want to.

When I was sixteen, I thought I wanted to live in a foreign country forever.  Now, after traveling to and living in a few foreign countries, I know that I would always want to come back home.

When I was sixteen, I used to think that all decisions were etched in stone.  I thought that once a decision was made, there was no room for revision, that everything was do or die.  Now, I know that changing your mind or quitting or starting something new or trying something else or starting something over or realizing it works better another way is life, plain and simple.

When I was sixteen, I thought that one day I'd figure it out.  That one day, I would have this magic moment and it would all come clear.  Now, I realize that I won't ever have a magic moment.  Things will never come clear all at once.  It making sense depends on trust, and things are revealed in fragments, in pieces that fit together in surprising ways.

Lemon Ginger

I go through tea phases.  The pendulum normally swings between Earl Grey and chai.  When I was in France I was a cinnamon orangeaphile.  I went through a time of honey chamomile when I was at Auburn.  Every once in a while I'll careen off into some blackberry/raspberry/blueberry concoction.

But when I get into lemon ginger mode . . . aw, shucks! It's on then, son.  When my tastebuds get a hankering for some lemon ginger tea . . . it means something's about to go down.  It means I'm kicking it into high gear.

See, that lemon is lemony and zingy.  And that ginger is pungent and spicy.  When I take a sip, it's like, wake up, let's go, let's do this, get up, get pumpin and jumpin. When you want to be chill and cozy, you drink the usual mellow tea fare.  But when it's time to rock it, lemon ginger, hands down.

(SN: This is a letter I wrote breaking up with chai when I first discovered lemon ginger a few years ago.)

Not a Goodbye Girl

Heading back to Georgia this morning.

There are many things I am, but there are a few things I'm not, and one of them is a goodbye girl.

Doesn't matter.  Did I love the place, did I hate the place, do I want to stay, am I ready to go, is my time to leave obligatory or voluntary.  Doesn't matter.  I'm not a goodbye girl.

Give me an optimistic spark and I'll burn the candle down.  Oh, sunshine, sunflowers, guitar music, cute, cozy things, my sudden, ebullient laugh.  But want to shut it down?  Concoct a goodbye and serve it to me on a plate.

This is what makes it:  A dreary morning like today and a road trip ahead.  Want to seal the deal?  Throw in some melancholy British folk rock.  Then it's a wrap.

Rock That Mohawk (well, Faux-hawk)

I got my hair done in a faux-hawk (faux, since I didn't actually get the sides of my head shaved) and on the way out of the salon, my stylist was like, "You can rock that."

Little did she know that rockin' it was my New Year's resolution!  You heard me, 2012.  Didn't I say I was gonna rock it, son?

This Sunflower Day

It's 69 degrees in January.  What that means is that I can go outside in ballet flats and a sunflower in my hair.  Even a little girl at Starbucks noticed.  "You have a flower."  Yes.  Yes, I do.

Trusting God Means Letting Go

During these last few days before I head back to school for another round of action, I've been very . . . I guess the word is 'contemplative.'  What have I learned?  What does God want me to see?

Sometimes we hear the uber-Christian term "let go" in reference to past hurts, guilt, unforgiveness, bitterness, or whatever negative thing you're harboring that's holding you back from a deeper relationship with God. These are all things which need to be "let go" of, right?

But I posit that "letting go" means letting go of positive things as well.  Specifically, letting go of the hope of something still somehow happening the way you wanted it to after God has closed the door.

Even if whatever it is you desired was something perfectly natural and godly.  Even if you are, deep down inside, convinced that the door closing was somehow a mistake.  Even if you feel, with conviction, that the situation was custom made for you.  It had your name written all over it.  How could it not be?  Even if you know that, without a doubt, you would have made a significant contribution, you would have made it work, you would have excelled, you would have been fulfilled, you would have rocked it, had it just worked out.

But it didn't work out.  God closed the door.  And now you have to let it go.

Does God closing the door mean that He'll never open it again?  Not necessarily.  There are lots of reasons God closes doors.  Maybe the timing was off.  Maybe you weren't mature enough.  Maybe He is still preparing you.  I know of situations where God closed a door for a certain amount of time, but opened the same door later.  For all intents and purposes, God can do anything.

However, I still feel that once God has closed a door, your next move should be to allow that particular hope, concerning that particular situation, to die.  Maybe a better way to put it is that you should return it to Him.

It's quite easy to hold out for a deus ex machina of sorts to suddenly appear and right it all.  It's tempting to say that you're moving on in theory, but in practice, you're still hanging on to the possibility that maybe, perhaps, one day . . . still, I say your only recourse is to simply let it go.

Continuing to hold on to the hope after God has already made it clear that it's not to be, is really another way of not trusting Him.  I believe that once you accept things on God's terms, you show that you truly are relinquishing control of your hopes and entrusting them once again into His hands.  You communicate that you believe that He knows best, that He knows what He's doing, that He knows every intricacy of your hopes and dreams and that since you are His child, He has your best interest at heart.  Whether He opens the same door later or never is beside the point.  You trust Him.  And trusting God means letting go.

Kindle vs. iPad: My Theory on How God Does Stuff

I wanted an iPad.  I knew my brother was going to get me an iPad (because he has money and he does stuff like that).  Even when those Amazon boxes showed up at the house, I still convinced myself that they were iPads (one for me and one for my mom).

But on Christmas day, I discovered that it was a Kindle.  A (selfish, ungrateful) part of me was like, "Boy, I said I wanted an iPad!"  But the reasonable, conciliatory side of me was like, "Girl, chill out," and I explored my Kindle and saw what it had to offer.  I totally love it, even though it isn't what I (thought I) wanted.  It does everything that I expected I would want to do on an iPad.  Of course, I know there are lots of things that an iPad does that a Kindle doesn't do, but once I fell in love with my Kindle, it didn't matter.

I would like to offer the wanting-an-iPad-getting-a-Kindle phenomenon as an analogy for what God does sometimes.  You're dead set on something.  You just have to have it.  You pray fervently for it.  "God, please give me X." Then you find that God gives you Y.  And at first you're like, "But God, I asked for X," and you're disappointed because it wasn't what you expected it to be.

Some people stay in that disappointment mode over Y and refuse to enjoy life outside of their predetermined expectations.  If it isn't the way you imagined it, then it's not really what you wanted, and you can't enjoy it or get fulfillment out of it.

But other people accept Y and explore what it has to offer, even though it's not what they anticipated.  Once they embrace Y as is and decide to enjoy life with the Y God is offering them, guess what they discover?  That Y really is X, just not in the way they thought.  They realize that they'd rather have Y that actually is X than their predetermined notion of how X should have been because they're so in love with Y that it doesn't matter.

The Word says that God will give us our heart's desire if we take delight in Him (Psalm 37:4).  I trust that He knows what my heart's desire is.  My heart's desire has a title, but it also has a soul, an essence.  I think it's possible to get the purest essence of your heart's desire and be completely fulfilled, even if it doesn't come bundled in the package of a certain title.  In other words, it's possible to be completely fulfilled with a Kindle, even though it isn't an iPad.  It won't happen, though, unless you're willing to completely let go of your predetermined notion of how happy an iPad would have made you.

Are you still pining away for X when Y is staring you dead in the face, begging to be embraced? People are so afraid that if they take Y up on its offer that they are settling for less when in fact, that couldn't be further from the truth.  God wants you to trust him on Y even though it might not be X in title, and then in the end, well, you might be surprised.

Southern Things I Do and Say

I was born in the South, as a matter of fact.  In Biloxi, Mississippi.  But when I was six, we moved to Italy and didn't come back to the States until I was almost 12.  My speech accentless, my psychosis for college football undeveloped, my mindset unracialized, and my new hometown Montgomery, Alabama, people began to ask me the question that has haunted me ever since: "Where are you from?"

How do I answer?  I teeter between telling my life story and just saying "Montgomery."  Because if I do the former, people might think, "Um, I didn't ask you all of that," but if I say the latter, people stand there looking at me with eyes that don't believe it and have a hunch there's more to the story.  The ones who can't let it go usually end up asking me, "Where are your parents from?" And then I teeter between going ahead with the life story and blurting out, "The ghetto in Philly."

Despite my "proper talkin'" ways, there are still some Southern mannerisms I have acquired:

1. Drinking sweet tea with lemon.  Once you get north of the Mason-Dixon line, it's pretty much unheard of.  Another fun-fact: You know you're at a "fancy" restaurant in the South if they don't offer sweet tea.  In those cases, they only have unsweet and you have to sweeten it yourself with packets of sugar.  But all sweet tea aficionados know that you can't sweeten cold unsweetened tea for real.  All the sugar granules just settle at the bottom.  Boo.

2. Addressing children and a few female friends with names like "sweetie," "sweetheart," and "babe."  That (as well as referring to myself in the 3rd person) was at its worst when I taught elementary school: "Sweetheart, didn't Miss Smith just ask you to put the crayons away?  Thank you, babe."

3. Using the adjective 'sweet' to mean 'nice' or 'thoughtful' or 'polite.'

4. Using the adjective 'ugly' instead of 'rude.' (i.e. "Yeah, she was really ugly on the phone.")

5. Saying "How do you figure (that)?" instead of "What makes you think that?"

6. Saying "How about" instead of "What if"  or "Why don't  . . . " (i.e. "How about we go to the mall and just eat at the Food Court?")

7. Addressing all adults older than me as "Ma'am" and "Sir."  Sometimes, if someone says something to me and I didn't hear or understand them, instead of saying, "Excuse me, what did you say?" or some such thing, I'll simply say, "Ma'am?" or "Sir?" in an interrogative tone.  Just that one word in a certain tone of voice communicates "Would you please repeat what you just said?" in the most polite and Southern of ways.  The funny thing is that I didn't grow up talking to my parents that way, so I never address them that way, but in the South all children who were "brought up right" address all adults, as well as their parents, that way.

8. Expecting men to hold the door for me.  Those who don't weren't brought up right.

9. Nodding my head as a greeting/acknowledgement to a male stranger.  Like if I'm passing by you and you're looking me dead in the face and I don't feel like saying anything and I plan to keep walking, I'll give you a demure nod and keep it moving.

10. Saying, "You're fine," in response to someone who thinks they are in my way/being a bother. Like if I'm in the aisle at WalMart and someone starts to scurry away because they think they're blocking me or whatever, I calmly say, "No, you're fine," so that they'll know they don't have to move for my sake.

Anyway, I'm sure I could think of a few more, but it's sort of fun to consider the Southerness I've managed to acquire despite myself.

2012: Rock It.

Imagine you're on your Kindle or your iPad or whatever mobile device with a touch screen and you're looking at the beginning of 2012 dead on.  Then you use your fingers to zoom the image out so that you can see part of 2009, 2010 and 2011 as well.  Here's what you'd probably be able to see on my timeline:

End of 2009-2010: Dug yourself into a spiritually and emotionally bereft hole.

2011: Began gradually emerging out of the hole by making explicitly better decisions until you were totally out, thanks to God's grace and mercy, and went on to a place where God confirmed you were back on track.

Now, at the beginning of 2012, I am filled with gratitude.  Just pure thankfulness for God's grace, mercy, love, provision and leading.  I am still learning how to trust Him.  But I can honestly say that in this past year, I have trusted Him more than I ever have before.  At times, I still struggle with that maddening feeling that creeps up when you realize that you're still in a world inhabited by unknowns, you're still looking down at that churning ocean of uncertainty.  I've learned to still it through worship, by continually turning it over to Him, refusing to pick the burden back up.  It's not yours.  It was never yours to begin with.

This is what I have begun to accept about the uncertainty: It will always be there to some degree.  My brain thinks since there are still some biggies I'm uncertain about, that once those are settled, it'll be all good.  Oh, brain.  I know why you think that, but it just isn't true.  The realization that I'm going to always have to refuse to pick that burden back up is finally starting to sink in.

This is how I want to see the uncertainty: Like it's Christmas or my birthday.  Like my life is littered with a wealth of surprises that I get to open up.  Some of them will be just what I asked for.  Some of them will be less exciting.  Others, I may wish I had the receipt for to take back immediately.  But they're all for me, God-given, and for my good.  I want to bask in the uncertainty.  What does He have for me next?  Waiting for it with expectation, living in it with abandon.

This is what I want to be able to do:  Rock it.  Not just steel myself, passively waiting for whatever to descend upon me and then amble along, keeping a stiff upper lip.  I want to be able to rock it. When I say rock it, I mean, give it my best, confidently getting in there and giving it my all.  When I say rock it, I mean enjoy it, living in the freedom God has always offered me.  When I say rock it, I mean embrace it, accepting it for what it is and thanking God for it.  Doing it and doing it well.  Living it and living it with flair.  Knowing it and knowing it with confidence.

That's my New Year's Resolution.  I will rock it.  I will rock this PhD program.  I will rock turning 30 in a few months.  I will rock whatever hairstyle I don.  I will rock my quirky t-shirts.  I will rock being single for now.  Whatever I do, whatever comes my way, whatever state I'm in, I want to be able to rock it.

Come on, God.  Surprise me.

My Guitar Debut

As usual, I have to preface these sorts of things with a disclaimer.  This is not false humility, this is the God honest truth.  This is not that great.  I mess up a couple of times and my voice is not exactly on point . . . I could probably use some voice coaching.  And, the sound quality kind of sucks.  But alas.  Here's an imperfect rendition of the song I wrote.  At least you have an idea of how it's supposed to sound.  I think it's my theme song for the upcoming New Year.

Dear Gross Old Man,

There are so many things you need to understand, but the first one is that Guitar Center is not the place to try to pick up chicks.  Really?  Second of all, you have some audacity.  Let me ask you something.  What makes you think that you, looking like a human milk dud, even have the right to talk to me?  You are OLD.  You are UGLY.  Please understand, you can't help the fact that you look like a milk dud or that you're old.  I'm not faulting you for that.  But you can help the fact that you're trying to get all up in my face.  Holding the door to the acoustic guitar room, looking at me like a piece of meat as I walk by talking about some "You're beautiful." I said thank you, but then you had to tack on a lecherous, "No, thank you."  Ick.  Then still trying to spit some non-working game talking about some, what kind of guitar music do I play and can you come over to hear me sometime.  Um, no sir.  That's what I said, no sir.  You are creepy, you are gross, you are old, and you have no business trying to talk to me.  Get up outta my face and stop thinking that you still got it.  Cuz if you ever had it, let me tell you this right now:  You don't have it anymore.  It's GONE, son.  In fact, I suspect you lost it a LONG time ago, buddy.  So hang it up, keep your dirty old man mouth shut and sit your milk dud behind down.
                                                                         
                                                                         Sincerely,
                                                                         Me

What God Will Do

I woke up this morning with the strains of a guitar melody floating around the edge of my dreams.  It was at the end of my last dream and began to play like the music that begins to play when the credits roll at the end of a movie.

I got out of bed and words started fitting in.  I started rearranging them in the shower and I had to write them down before they slipped away:

Yeah, your heart is heavy
No miracle in sight
Oh, your heart is broken
But open up your eyes
Drifting in the ocean
Nothing to hold onto
Frightened and uncertain
But watch what God will do

Cry on, weep on through the night
Joy is here with the morning light
Trouble, it don't last always
Trust in God, trust in His ways
He is good, His word is true
Let His love wash over you
You might be surprised
You might be surprised
You might be surprised
What God will do

I pulled out my guitar and got my dream melody down along with the words.  And that was that.  I wrote my first guitar song.  Once I get a memory card for my new little camera, maybe I'll post a video of myself performing it.

Today was great for other reasons too.

1. Had Popeye's for lunch.  Stereotypical, considering my, er, demographic, but a couple of Popeye's chicken wings, some red beans and rice and a biscuit are really hard to beat.  On everything.  All crunchy and greasy.  Boy, I tell you.

2. Went to New York and Company to finally get some new sunglasses (stylish yet cheap), and not only did I buy those suckers for 50% off, I got two skirts for 80% off each.  That's what I'm talmbout, son!  Originally $40 each and snatched those bad boys up for $8 each. #winning!

3.  Had a lovely time with Mom today.  She really is a great lady.

4. One of my sweet little ones gave me a picture of himself at church tonight. A round little brown boy with dimples.

My Favorite Christmas Gifts, et al.

My Favorite Christmas Gifts
1. A luxurious red robe from my pops.

2. A Happy Bunny t-shirt from my mom that says "Teachers are great.  Whatever.  Can I have an A?"

3. A Kindle Fire from my brother.

My Favorite Gifts to Others
1. A waffle iron for my mom (We tore UP some Belgian waffles this morning.)

2. A t-shirt for my little brother that has a picture of a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly holding a boombox with music playing and the peanut butter saying "That's my jam!"

3. A musical light-up dreidel for a friend.

Leviticus
Leviticus is kind of boring.  It's one of the most boring books of the Bible.  All these rules and sexist laws . . . LOL.  But Chapter 11 has me rolling every time.  It's the chapter (or one of the many chapters in the Old Testament) that talks about clean and unclean animals.  Basically, what animals they could and could not eat.  It is SO funny.  So, when God talks about what birds they can't eat, He's like, don't eat flying things like vultures, eagles, owls, and bats.  Yuck!  I mean, who eats that? LOL.  Like, if I were the children of Israel I would've been like, dude, if You have worries about anything, the least of them should be that I'm going to backslide by eating some bat stew.  Really? Ugh.  But then He's like, okay, don't eat any winged insects that walk on the ground (again, no worries there), but you are allowed to eat locusts, crickets and grasshoppers. Um, thanks, God, but no thanks.  LOL.  Then He lists some other super nasty animals that are "creeping things" that He doesn't want anyone to eat: ferrets, chameleons, snails and moles, for example.  Okay, I did eat escargot a couple of times, and that does sound nasty, but it really isn't.  But chameleons?  Ewww.  It makes me wonder about the Israelites.  Like, what were y'all doing?  Just eating every nasty thing you could get your hands on so that God was like, whoa, y'all are going to have to settle down with this whole eating the doggone zoo business, so let me get some laws together to keep you from getting all kinds of exotic indigestion?

Doing nothing
I'm starting to get used to it.  Uh, oh.  I've gained a few pounds (just a few) and now I have to wean myself of a new Angry Birds addiction.  I'm really enjoying this time to sleep in and eat and hang out with friends that I don't get to see too often.  I think I'll be ready to get back in the game when Jan 9th rolls around, though.  I can only do nothing for so long before I start getting restless.

This is not a metaphor.

My friend got a rejection letter in the mail.

I think I wanted the job for her as much as she wanted it for herself.  It was perfect.  It had her name written all over it.  Oh, please God, let her get it.  Naming and claiming and hoping and just deep down knowing.

But what came in the mail came in the mail.

Here's what's beautiful.  She put it up on the refrigerator.  It was her way of saying "Blessed be the name of the Lord."  No matter what.  Not getting the job she would have loved.  Being thrown back into that uncertainty.  It's a part of His plan.  It's for the good.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.

It was a simple act, but such a lovely one.  Putting a rejection letter up on the refrigerator along with smiling pictures and other testaments to moments of pride.  I need to start putting everything that God allows to happen up on my spiritual refrigerator.  Not just getting an assistantship.  Getting all As.  Everything.

Impatient Me

I want what I want, and I want it now.

I'm impatient.  I'm realizing this more and more.  I'm working on it.

1. In the car, stuck in holiday shopping traffic.  I'm telling all the cars ahead of me in all the languages I know to hurry up.  Apúrate.  Dépêche-toi.  Why am I in such a hurry?  I have a span of time in which to lie back comfortably.  I have no deadlines.  What is this restlessness?  This energy to keep moving, and now?

2. Craving for chocolate.  Deep, gooey, dark, fudgy chocolate.  Brownies.  I want them now.  I bought a box. Whipped them up.  Popped them in the oven.  Couldn't wait.  I left them in the time it said to leave them in, but they still weren't done through and through.  Let them cool off, they'll set, it'll be okay.  I love gooey, almost to the point of still batter-y brownies, but the bottom line is that they weren't done.  But I still cut into them and satisfied my craving.  But they weren't done.  But I wanted them now.

3. Talking to my friend.  She didn't want to distract me while I was writing papers, so she waited to tell me.  The words start tumbling out, sometimes talking over her.  "I think—" "You should—" "You shouldn't—"  The words bubbling up, they can't wait to get out, I have to tell her that . . . Really?  You can't just let her talk and you just listen?  Maybe she doesn't want opinions and solutions.  Maybe she just wants to be heard.  And that includes closing your overactive mouth and listening.  And waiting.  She waited to tell you, so you can't wait to listen?  But the words bubbling up and burning.  I wanted to say it now.

4. A new purple monkey on my bed I couldn't wait to get.  Sitting at my laptop, fingers going, mind racing and wondering.  I can't wait.  I want to know now.  I want what I want, and I want it now.  Steeling myself.  Let the uncertainty and impatience wash over me like hot waves.  What is this restlessness?  I have a span of time in which to lie back comfortably.  Don't you dare pick that burden back up.  Snatch your hand away from it like a touched hot iron. It isn't yours.

No Room

Consul Flavius Antonius had sent one of his servants down to the main hall of the inn to request fresh water, but had also requested that she personally bring it up.  Flavius didn't even call her by name.  He just referred to her as "the almond-eyed servant girl."

She had gone to the well sullenly, her stomach churning in disgust as she drew the water.  Flavius Antonius was charged with overseeing affairs in Judea, and it was tax-collection time in Bethlehem.  He frequented Abner's inn when he had to stay overnight in Bethlehem due to his various business and administrative duties.  He never tired of picking away at her, trying every ruse to chip away at her resolve, his ultimate goal to lure her into his bed.

He made promises, but marriage wasn't among them.  Would he, a Roman official, condescend to wed her, an orphaned Cyrenian slave?  He promised to buy her freedom, even boasting that he'd pay Abner twice what she was worth.  He tantalized her with tales of his travels, knowing that she longed to escape her dull life at the inn where she constantly endured Abner's harsh tongue lashings.  He tempted her with gifts of silk and finery, which she always refused, knowing that she tired of her drab, tattered, servant girl trappings.  If she would just give in to Flavius she would have her freedom and the chance to live a more comfortable life.  But what of her dignity?  What of her character?

As she passed through the main hall on her way to deliver the water, she was arrested by the sight of a young woman about her age, great with child.  The young woman's mournful eyes locked with hers as the young woman's husband pleaded with Abner:

"As you can see," he stammered, "My wife is great with child.  She-she's already having labor pains and she needs a comfortable place to lie down.  Please.  If you could find it in your heart to—"

"I repeat, there is no room.  No room!  I don't know what else you want me to do!  Would you have me put out one of my paying customers because of your failure to plan?"

She was immobilized, her gaze still held by that of the young woman.  She began to seethe with anger, knowing that Abner always kept a few rooms available for his most esteemed guests.  Just as she was about to open her mouth to offer her humble room to the couple, Abner noticed that she was idle, taking in the scene.

"Get back to work, wench!"

Flecks of spittle gathered at the corners of the innkeeper's mouth as he roared, and the vessel of water she had balanced on her head nearly spilled as she flinched from his harsh address.  She broke from the young woman's gaze and slowly began making her way towards Flavius's chamber, her heart thudding with adrenaline-laced dread.  She timidly knocked.

"You may enter."

He sat on the edge of his bed, perusing scrolls.  She began to set the vessel down on the table, but he motioned for her to bring it to him.  He placed his hands over hers as she held the vessel and tipped it towards his lips to drink.  Satisfied, he stood, placed the vessel on the table himself and pulled her towards him.  He ran a finger along her jawline.

"So, my almond-eyed girl, when will you decide to spend some time with me?" he asked euphemistically.

"Not tonight.  Not ever," she replied, pulling away from him.  He held on to her hand.

"What will it take to finally break your strong will, hm?"  He pulled on a strand of her untamed curls.  "Many women would kill to have a chance with me.  Do you realize the power I have?  Do you realize what I am offering you?  I would buy your freedom.  You would no longer have to work as a slave in this hovel.  If you would just . . . please," he whispered into her ear.

She felt herself begin to give in.  It would be so easy.  No more of Abner's tirades.  No more scrubbing the floors on her knees.  No more mucking out the filthy stables.  She slowly exhaled and Flavius drew her even closer.

But at what cost?  To exchange one master for another?  She suddenly backed away from him, knocking into the table and sending the half-filled vessel crashing to the floor.  He slammed his fist down on the table in frustration.  She ran out of the door, flew past the main hall, ignoring Abner's protests, and ran outside towards the stables, her sight blurred from tears.

As she approached, she was met with the familiar stench of the animals, but she also heard the whimpering of a babe.  In the glow of a small lantern, she recognized the couple she saw earlier bending over their newborn they had placed in a manger.  She observed the scene unnoticed, and was filled with a sense of overwhelming peace.

She returned to the inn.  Undisturbed, she retired to her humble room.  She looked out her window to see the sky filled with a glowing host of angels.  Ordinarily, she would have been frightened, but instead, she simply closed her eyes and heard the strains of a sweet heavenly chorus:

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.